Cantus Dimindium Argenteum by Mogu2mochi

“a4;ρα να ξυπνήσεις, Σεβέρους.”

Soft white light leaks through the gloved fingers that are covering Snape’s eyes as if the flesh within the fabric is translucent. Harry peaks from behind, having to have heard what the man said about the professor’s odd condition, a glimmer of hope that he doesn’t know still existed rekindled within him, especially seeing how the black veins were miraculously healed with another song-like chant.

The boy catches a glimpse at the woman in the veiled hat, who is standing silently at the bedside, the cut that was made on her hand was no longer bleeding, but leaving a deep red scar, similar to the ones showing on her still bare forearm which she has yet bother to cover. The edges look jagged, yet the position looks intentional, with one long slice straight in the middle crossing the shorter cuts as if it’s carved into her arm as a ruler of some sort.

The man shifts the prone figure in his arms and briefly takes the hand off his face, trying to check if he has regained consciousness perhaps? Harry hopes it’s working, he can tell the other head of houses, alongside the Malfoys are yearning to see the cantankerous teacher up and snarking again.

The man, Decimus Prince? Cocks his head to the side and taps his chin with a finger, deep in thought.

“Madame? May I know all the potions Severus had taken over the week?” Prince’s clouded eyes never lose their sharpness as he focuses on the prone figure, Scanning his other hand across the bare scar-littered torso, stopping at certain points as the same light pulsing at the contact. It’s the first time Harry witness a healer in action, other than Madame Pomfrey of course, but never has he seen them revive a person, let alone do it wandlessly.

“Blood replenishers, energy replenishers, enhanced painkillers, general repairers for internal damages.” Madame Pomfrey rattles out the list of potions she has been pouring into her patient, she walks next to the man, raises her wand, and scans Snape in a similar motion while allowing Prince to take the conjured parchment, the two working in tandem.

The older man briefly moves his sight away from the body onto the text, eyes moving across names and dosages, stopping at the final row of runes.

“Hm.”

“Yes?” The noncommittal sound effectively catches everyone’s attention amidst the tense silence.

Gray gaze pierces into Harry’s eyes, sending an involuntary shiver down the boy’s spine. Seeing this, Dumbledore immediately shields him from Prince’s view, wand outstretched, in which said man merely chuckles in amusement, unbothered by the presence of one of the most powerful wizards in the world.

“You are the one he brought back, child?”

Despite the tightening hold, the headmaster has on his arm, Harry nods, hoping to contribute something, anything.

“Professor Snape,” he stills himself under looks of warning and concern, “gave me a potion to drink, and so did himself and the other death eaters. And when we came back-”

“Ah! He asked me to brew this for Mr. Potter.” Madame intercepts, and quickly takes the folded recipe out of her dress pocket, handing it over to Prince, some purplish stains dotting the edge of the text, perhaps it is from when the matron brewed the antidote for him. “Severus said he was the one who made up the formula, then perhaps…”

The man’s eyes smile at Harry reassuringly and dip his head in thanks, ignores the blatant distrustful look upon Dumbledore’s face, and turns to Pomfrey, “Approximately how much was Mr. Potter’s intake of this?” he points at the boy with the corner of the parchment.

Harry is internally thankful that the man didn’t start making a fuss over him being Harry Potter.

“Three size two vials per day, four days straight, a dose of energy replenishers yesterday morning.”

“And Severus?”

“But he– he said-” Madame Pomfrey stutters, “But he said the antidote won’t work on himself? And I-” Terrified by the implication, she once again reduce to bitter tears at her inability to save a patient, and angry to be easily tricked by the man’s habit of self-neglect. The professors once again pull her into their embraces, having to know about the man’s antics all too well, their expressions of sorrow mixed with frustration.

Prince unhurriedly stands up front the kneeling position, looking at Snape’s brewing instructions fondly like it’s a profound piece of poetry, his eyes glitter under sunlight, replacing the gray haze over the dark spot of the iris with an iridescent sheen. “Ingenious.” He shakes his head in exasperation, the quirk at its lips more prominent, “But also a reckless one, this lad.”

The man begins his way toward Harry, then, a chorus of “Stupefy!” rings around the boy as the Aurors and Dumbledore raise their wands at the outsider. Brilliant flashes of red hurl towards the target, its velocity creating a surge of wind, but the stunners slowly reduce into wisps of glowing silk as it reaches the man, his expression remains placid, and the smile is ever a sealed envelope, it’s genuine and tender, though the lack of mockery or vexation or more twinkling is oddly creeping the boy out a little.

“Had Severus given you anything else, child?” He looks at Harry knowingly.

“My boy, don—”

“He’s tricking the boy! He’s trying to turn him into one of them!” The minister looks like he’s just got chased by the nesting dragon from the tournament, his bowler hat toppling out of his ruffled hair. Fudge stumbles backward and attempts to hide behind the line of Order members while pushing them forward, “Get on and arrest him! This is insubordination!”

Prince raises his eyebrows, and lets out a mirthful chuckle, his eyes shimmering orbs of mercury. “I thought I said I’m not one of them, minister, I am no fool to walk into a room full of Aurors even if I am a… Death eater? Is that what they are called?” He looks at the mute woman, who is still standing dutifully next to him. Eileen, Harry remembers how Mrs. Weasley reacted at the name, gave the man a curt nod, then her hands methodically gesture something, fingers doing an elaborate dance, then it occurred to him that she is signing.

“It’s– There’s no way, all the Princes are, you’re supposed to be–” Fudge stammers, looking like he’s about to faint, “Dumbledore! You ensured–”

“That we are missing? Exiled? Dead? Assassinated, perhaps?” the man looks straight at the minister, the gentleness in his voice makes everyone’s hair stand up at their backs. To Harry, if what the man is implying doesn’t prove his point, then what he shows next probably does the job.

“Decimus Prince” loosens his neatly tied cravat with a finger, and lightly pulls down the collar of his white shirt. A series of darkened flesh rimmed with a sickly pale green comes into view, each decaying matter is in various sizes, of a rough marquise shape, all across the collarbone like an arc, judging by more dark points pointing out under the white layer, the inflicted wound might have been radiated outwards from the chest, almost like a fully blossomed lotus. Harry hears gasps around him, as well as mutterings of confusion, Hermione and Ron, who are still sandwiching him huddle closer, visibly upset by the display. It was brief, but the bookish girl’s eyes light up for one second when she spots the pin. If it weren’t for this tense moment, Harry and Ron would have been begging for answers from their friend.

If anyone knows something, it would be ‘Mione.

“Who are you?” Dumbledore grills, stepping forward and raises a hand, signaling the people to back down, and acts as a human shield for Harry. Never has anyone seen the benevolent and indomitable headmaster stiffen in such a way, not even in the face of the greatest dangers, say, You-Know-Who himself.

“I’m the Overseer of the Prince’s Assemblage.” He puts a hand over his heart, and does a light bow, “Ah, I think in terms of a House, my position would be ‘Lord to the House of Prince’. If you believe me that is.”

“The Princes have ever only bore the title of an heir out of tradition…” Dumbledore frowns, while the others look expectantly at him for answers, but Hermione beats him to it, Brown eyes sparkling with curiosity and wonder.

“That would mean, the myth is real?” She gasps before Mrs. Weasley flies her way next to Hermione, clutching her by the shoulder and holding her back, hysterically saying something about “dangerous” and “don’t associate” in a hushed tone at the brim of a breakdown, which the rest of Weasleys try to pull her away while keep sending questioning looks at the older witch.

“Unfortunately, little miss, the myth happens to be real. I am cursed to live, for Hecate knows how long.” the Lord smiles, albeit with a hint of wryness. “Well minister, knowing your doubts, how would you like me to prove myself?” he turns to the portly man who flinches at the switch of attention.

Malfoy senior glances at the cowering Minister of Magic, then at his wife and son, hoping what he does next can earn favor from the mysterious man and save his family in its entirety.

“The third branch of the Prince Assemblage, also known as the House of Prince, is first founded in Italy. Unlike the rest of the truly magical, there were no strict rules regarding naming heirs based on kinship prior to their arrival amongst the English Wiccans, but intellect and capabilities. No Prince has reached beyond the status of heir since its founding due to no confirmed death of the Lord. As such, the Head to the House of Prince has always been Heir Prince caused by the will of magic and the descendants’ respect.” He recites, as all the contents of “ History of Blood and Power–113th edition ” were engraved into his mind at the age of six as a part of pureblood education, Abraxas made sure to quiz him every hour each day, back when he still cared.

At Lord Prince’s encouraging smile, Fudge’s suddenly eager look, and the vein that is starting to pop on Dumbledore’s temple, Lucius Malfoy continues.

“The Prince heirs, regardless of their blood or gender, will undergo a different blood adoption procedure and become an heir or heirs-in-line, hence it is believed all descendants can inherit the same magical power as their predecessors. During their time in Britain, the house of Prince is mostly known for Alchemy, Mind Arts, Healing Arts, and Warding. Which made them be recognized as the 29th House to be listed amongst the old Sacred Bloods despite not being truly pureblood. The first Heir Prince rose within the English isles — Grania Aerlis Prince, born, a known sole Addolimens practitioner within England— a subcategory of mind arts, used said practice as a mind healing method. It is rumored that Lord Prince was the one to invent the illusion—projection ability, but the method was soon lost to both time and the Prince’s exile. The author of Pure-blood Directory — Cantankerus Nott, did not include the House due to their departure from the British Wizarding Society before the editing of the book. ”

Malfoy pauses to catch his breath, as the others look ardently at him for more. Hermione in particular looks like a man in the desert spotting an oasis.

“In 1740, Eldritch Diggory, the Minister of Magic at the time, commissioned the Assemblage for stronger warding around Azkaban to prevent muggles from discovering the Prison’s location. It is unknown whether the wards are still intact after the Ministry denounces the House due to an heir in line’s actions in 1945, namely escaping the arranged bonding between the house and a High ranked Ministry Official and, discovered to be married to Muggleborn or Muggle man, and the subsequent birth of their child.” the man says the last word with a sneer.

Lord Prince nods his head in thanks, while Fudge’s paling face makes him look even more constipated, Dumbledore’s magic is starting to heat the air around him, and Harry immediately takes a step back to where Professor Sprout is upon seeing the irate face.

“How did you know that?”

Malfoy senior elegantly crosses his arms in front of his robes and huffs at the indignant tone, “Just because you deemed certain history books about old families written by us purebloods are ‘too dark’ and ‘biased’ for the public masses, it does not mean we would let our children grow ignorant of their lineage and alliances, without those, the Wizenmagot shall be in ruins.” He drawls, one eyebrow raised challengingly.

“It already is.” Moody mutters, shooting a glare at the aristocrat.

Harry forces himself not to smirk at the minister’s dropped jaw, who instantly straightens himself at everyone’s stares with a cough, shaking hand rubbing his chin.

“Ah, L- Lord Prince, if you could…?”

“Oh?” The man is having fun, Harry thinks, “I thought you considered me a threat?”

“That– That is because…”

“While you have decided to eradicate most of my hiers in line, I have no desire to wreak havoc upon this place, I have seen dementors, and they are decidedly unpleasant.”

“But what about, the failed alliance, and the dark?” Fudge inquires in a quivering voice.

Prince blinks a couple of times before chortling, his eyes narrowing with merriment “My, such narrative you have spun Dumbledore!” He glides a finger up and down at the bridge of his nose. “While we were quite distraught by your predecessors’ decisions to hunt down the missing child as a bargaining chip for our services, the failed forced bonding would not have denied the assistance the ministry asked for.” the man pauses for a second, “that is until people decided we have betrayed them and would soon become a threat if the ‘other side’ requested for the Assemblage,” he says, dropping the voice to a low tenor, looking intently at the headmaster.

“There’s a reason we don’t name ourselves ‘Kings’, but despite being Princes, we don’t bow easily either, we will give our services and work for a cause…” Mercury eyes now look intently at the man hiding behind the crowd, “A worthy one of course.”

The minister lets out an undignified “eek!” at the piercing gaze, Mrs. Weasley tries to puff up defiantly, but deflates at the mention of “hunting down the missing child”.

“As for the alleged cooperation with Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldermort—”

There’s a collective flinch in the room.

“Don’t!” Fudge raises a hand, “He’s dead already! There’s no need to say—”

“Then there is no need to fear a dead man’s name, let alone a taboo.” Prince says casually, then cocks his head, “Unless?” the encouraging smile once again makes its appearance.

Seeing the trembling man has nothing to say, Lord Prince shakes his head exasperatingly, he raises three fingers and speaks, “Hear me, oh Lady of Magic. I, Ydragyros Agnolo Principe, youngest of the three Principals, Overseer of the Prince Assemblage, and Lord to the Third Branch, swear on my magic that I had not directed my former heir, Decimus Prince, and her granddaughter Eileen to provide any information or services toward forces opposing the British Ministry of Magic, nor do I have given them myself. My current purpose within these lands means no harm to the Ministry, but to seek out a solution to a problem. So mote it be.” A soft light encircles the man, slowly swirling upwards to the tip of his index finger, forming into a bright golden orb, almost like a mini Sun.

“Does that satisfy you, Minister?” The Lord extinguishes the light with the snap of his fingers, calmly looking at all of the bewildered faces, even Dumbledore has his eyes wide open like saucers, his mouth slightly agape at the truthful revelation, and the hand that has been clutching Harry’s arm goes slack momentarily.

“T– The mind arts… do… do it now.” Yep, Fudge is fainting any moment now.

“You look quite overwhelmed already, Minister. Do you really wish me to do so?” Prince uses the same concerned tone that Madame Pomfrey has, a caring one, but also very suggestive.

At Fudge’s frantic nodding, Lord Prince complies.

He cleans the cut around his bare hand with a wave, then puts on the black glove once more. He raises both of his hands, and with a thundering clap, the Prince intones:

"Addolimens."

It sounded like a harmony of people, of thousands of languages, accents, at different ages all at once, then…

A flare of light, glowing apparitions comes forth behind the man, hands outreached to the crowd witnessing. The infirmary becomes crowded with golden phantoms, some of them wearing the same sets of robes with different insignias, their hoods overshadowing half of their faces, while the others are in all kinds of clothing from different countries, Harry recognizes some in the same uniform as Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball, these people wear glowing rings of different shades light. Some of them are looking at different directions, four particular figures that has the same scars on Lord Prince’s body are looking at some of the order members. Two brighter figures are standing behind Lord Prince, a man in garments that of Middle-east origins, and a woman with a gold crown and long robes, her hand holding a bundle of plants.

Then Harry noticed, that he is beginning to feel a familiar pulsing warmth radiating from the sphere that is still in his pocket, when he looks down, a small, glowing and blurry apparition standing close next to him, his small hands in holding onto harry's larger one. The same boy from those dreams. Looking around, no one seems to notice the little boy that is holding onto him though, he meets the ever-changing colors in Lord Prince’s eyes, who seems to see the same thing as Harry. He nods in confirmation.

Lord Prince calls off the phantoms with another clap of his hands, and the little boy is gone. He then asks, “If I may? Mr. Potter?”

That breaks everyone out of their trances, with the silver in Harry’s outreached hand, calls of “Harry! No!” and “Mr. Potter!” are ignored, just before Dumbledore manages to yank his hand away, the sphere in his palm comes alive, thin silvery wings extend from the middle of it, engraving surfacing from the reflective surface, exactly like a snitch, after a few tentative flaps, it circles above them just like a real one would in at the pitch. Despite the abundance of questions he has in his mind, Harry can’t help but look at the silver snitch in wonder as it unknowingly gives him a sense of hope, and true joy ever since the end of the tournament.

The small object landed on Prince’s shoulder, he delicately picks it up and inspects, rotating it in his fingers.

“Intricate, completely functional, and work as intended… you must really enjoy being a quidditch seeker, do you?” The older man queries, then grins at Harry's flushed face.

“It was kind of a wand, when the professor gave it to me.” He admits, ignoring the mystified faces around him.

“It is a self–procured focus stone, instead of an induced one.” the man cups the sphere between his palm and presses it tightly, “While it’s usually used for meditations, amateur Alchemists use it for guidance to achieve better intent or energy flow, there are also more creative uses to it, as long as the wielder has the resolve to do so, it can be of any shape.”

“But, why a snitch?” Harry asks.

“When Severus gave you this in wand form, I assume it was for self-defense? You may think of this as a part of the lad, it has its own memory and magic and depending on how he created this, even low levels of sentience. His objective is imbued into this object, and it will accompany the wielder’s needs, in this case, yours.”

There is a muffled crack between the gloved hands, and something drips out of its creases, Lord Prince smiles in satisfaction.

“Here is my hypothesis, in a situation where he is either trying to protect you and get you out of danger, Severus would will it into an offensive weapon, while try to keep your mind collected at precarious situations for an easier rescue, as such, based on his own memory and what he may know about you, the focus stone itself will create imagery or change physically to remind you of something pleasant, giving you a sense of security.”

“Does it… include voices too?” Harry’s mind is completely blown off by the exact description of his experience, “Snape” and “Comforting”, oh Merlin.

“I am correct then,” he chuckles, hovering near the potion master, prying the bloodless lips open, then pours the liquid down his throat. “It is a good thing that he did not ask it back, now we can use it to revitalize his bodily functions.”

“What does that mean?” Professor McGonagall suddenly asks, desperate to know what will happen to her colleague.

“The potion Severus, Mr. Potter, and the rest of Mr. Riddle’s followers drank is called ‘Draft of Transference’, which has to do with both draining and refilling what most people like to call ‘Magical energy', in other words— how fast your magical core can regenerate. In short, the antidote Severus came up with allowed Mr. Potter to regenerate his own core faster by draining the others. The draft itself allows all of their magical cores to be linked for a short period amount of time. Said headache is a common reaction to a depleted or yet to be fully recovered magical core, hence the lad ordered the boy to take more doses for a faster recovery, which should be before the Death eater’s found the solution.”

“...That would mean…” Lady Malfoy gasps, shivering in her place, and remembers going through the headquarters to give each affected follower potions.

“If by the time the link between those people and Mr. Potter’s are closed off, then the boy would have been continuously taking the regenerative energy from the lad, which would also mean he reopened a link, and judging by the results, he most certainly did, and understood the consequences of doing so.”

Harry retches on an empty stomach as the others rush to help him. He did it, he actually killed the professor, he killed—

“Ah, while his core would be depleted, it simply takes a month or two to fully recuperate its effects in normal circumstances, but then again, he was affected by a soul-binding curse from whatever Black Family artifact he was attacked with, alongside the connection between his mark and Mr. Riddle. The two factors are enough to keep most of his system and consciousness barely functioning, but enough to experience the torture in his mind, and the deterioration of his own body.”

That didn’t mean Harry is blameless either, tears once again drenched the boy’s face, Lady Malfoy too weeps silently against Malfoy Senior’s chest.

Giving the boy a sympathetic look, he does one final scan and beckons him to come forward. “I think the lad can use your help, child.”

“That is enough, Mr. Prince.” Dumbledore suddenly switches back to the grandfatherly, concerned tone, the wand already sheathed back into his sleeve. “Harry has been traumatised enough, allow this old man to offer some help in his stead, I hope you will accept it as my sincere apology.”

Harry is about to protest but finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his feet heavy like lead, he struggles against the invisible restraints to no avail, while hoping Lord Prince wouldn’t interpret his lack of reaction as reluctance, he’s not going to stand aside and do nothing this time.

Prince turns to the older wizard with a smile of feigned bemusement, “Hm? I thought you were quite content to have the lad choke on his own blood for he has outlived his usefulness? May I ask what changed your mind?” With another snap of his fingers, Harry is freed and the boy goes next to the man in a few determined strides, Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall following close behind.

“Severus may be a spy, but our friendship is not forgotten to me.” the Headmaster says, ignoring the glares from certain people in the room, “Perhaps those eyes of yours aren’t perceiving things as well as they should?”

Lord Prince looks visibly amused at the jab but ignored him. “Eileen, if you will hold down Severus’s shoulders, and Mister Potter, release your hold from the focus stone when you are ready. Madames, use the reviving spell together after mine if you will.”

“Um, but how do I release it?”

“If there’s a person you can recognise from the imageries, simply focus on them in your mind and kindly urge them back to the original wielder.” The man explains as he places his hand over the professor’s eyes again.

Looking back at the school Matron and Professor’s hopeful look, Harry summons up his resolve and shuts his eyes tightly, trying to build up the same field of white and purple flowers, of a beautiful little girl, a boy in oversized clothes, a fuzzy ball of fur, the innocent joy. Then, he sees it—

A seam of light appears across the dark horizon, Harry breaks into a run towards the white field, skipping a step at the first lily, he looks around and spots the familiar figure.

“Mum!” He calls out to the red-haired girl, while carefully navigating his way towards her without trampling the ethereal flowers. The child snaps her head around, fiery hair spinning behind, her shock immediately transforms into a blinding beam. Putting down the wreath she has been weaving, his mother comes running and crashes into the open embrace, jumping excitedly.

This is happiness. Harry thought, bitter tears flooding, knowing that he may never see his parent’s in real life, let alone enjoy a blissful moment with them. “Mum, listen” He quickly wipes his tears away before the girl can spot them, “You need to go back to the Professor, he uh, he needs your help!”

The girl looks up to him with a pout, probably because he asked her to leave straight after their reunion, after a moment of consideration, she moves her head to one side, and mouths.

“Professor?”

Harry slightly panics at his mother’s confusion, perhaps back then she didn’t know that Snape got hired by Hogwarts. But weren’t they friends? “Professor Snape, you’re friends with him right?”

“Severus?” She mouths again, eyes brightening, she turns around to look across the field, then points at a black figure at the far end happily.

“Yes, you need to help him!” his mother seems to catch on that Harry won’t be going with her, while a bit deflated, she gives harry one final hug and runs towards the shade.

Harry can’t but reach out his hand as his mother runs away, hoping to be held by her just a little while longer, but as the girl reached the figure with ungodly speed, his concentration is broken by a voice next to him.

“Aktiraq. Safíneia.”

“Reenervate!”

He opens his eyes, panting heavily , the adults waiting in bated breath as Lord Prince frowns in concentration as he silently heals the professor.

Suddenly the limp body arches into the air, convulsing but immediately hold down by the woman with the veiled hat, until finally, a horrible sound that resembles a drowning man gasping for breath tears its way out from the professor mouth, followed by hacking coughs, but to Harry, it’s the best thing he has ever heard in months.

“Madame, the vitals.” the Prince inspects the man’s pupils again, while the woman her hand on top of the chest of the once again limp figure. Madame Pomfrey immediately whips out her wand and scans all across the professor.

“Oh Gods… thank Merlin!” Madame Pomfrey sobs at the rhythmically pulsing white light at the tip of her wand, Professor McGonagall, immediately pulls the matron into a tight embrace, eyes full of tears, and hope. “I… don’t know what to say, thank you, thank you so much.”

The room is filled with awed gasps, the head of houses and the Malfoys, even Lucius Malfoy broke into tears of relief. Professor Sprout and Flitwick join in the group hug, muttering words of comfort to the overwhelmed healer and Gryffindor's Head of House.

Lord Prince turns to Harry, then pats his shaking back, “Very well done, Mister Potter.” he says with a warm smile.

Such a simple sentence in a similar voice, yet it Makes Harry cry all over again, his words are almost like a balm over a deep cut, receiving the approval that he has been unknowingly yearning for.

“Sorry to break this wonderful moment, may I have your attention for a moment, please? It’s regarding what Severus might require during his recovery.” He lightly interrupts them.

That catches the group’s attention, while Poppy keenly conjures a self-inking quill and parchment, the woman dressed in dark monochrome is signing frantically at Lord Prince, possibly protesting.

Prince sighs, and rubs the woman’s shoulder comfortingly, “I know, dear Eileen, but there is no way for them to allow us to take the lad with us, it will be better to have him heal in the environment he is most familiar with.”

Miss Eileen makes a strangled noise, but ultimately nods at her Sire’s decision.

“Severus will stay unconscious for at least a day or two as he recovers both physically and magically, in case he wakes up within that period, do sedate him as he will be in a panic from the inner torment he was released from. When he fully regains consciousness, pain, nausea, and fatigue are inevitable, however, do use non-magical remedies, as the magical qualities in potions might make his magic spike even more from the initial core regenerative period. If the flesh around the sealed wound becomes inflamed, small amounts of dittany on the surface will help, medicine for external use will not affect his regeneration.”

“Noted.”

“As for this,” Lord Prince lifts the still blackened arm of the professor, “I’m afraid I can not decipher what link is between Tom Riddle and this mark as it seems…odd, and unlike other Death eater’s mark I have studied.”

He takes off his still wet glove and ties it around the darkened wrist, in a blink of an eye, it burns into cinders, leaving lines of whitened runes against the bare corrupted flesh.

“This should deactivate the mark for now, and whatever he insists, force him to rest in the hospital wing for a week, that is the bare minimum before the pain subsides a considerable amount. And judging by the stubbornness in the letters he sent me, I can tell he is a difficult patient.”

That significantly lightens the mood within the infirmary.

“I mean no offence Lord Prince, but where were you planning to take Severus? We’ve rarely heard anything about those he associates with.” Professor Flitwick speaks up with curiosity.

“To Italy. Since I have been commissioning the lad for some while, and himself being part of the International Potions Conference, which now works autonomously from the Assemblage, he’s an unofficial member under us, the scholars from the hall have been hoping he would be a part of their circle. Regardless, he will always have a place there.”

“Oh? But why not make it official? Wouldn’t a Death Eater stain your records?” Dumbledore asks, Harry thinks he might be taunting the Prince, but it was probably his own imagination.

“Well, I offered, but he was quite adamant at his refusal, the reason being his duty in Hogwarts. I was slightly confused at first though respected said decision, but now I understand the…complexity behind his position.” He eyes at the mark, then at the order members, finally landing his gaze on Dumbledore.

“Well, I think I shall stop overstaying my welcome, do ask Severus to write to me when he is well enough, I hope to visit him again when he has recovered if that is permissible?”

Dumbledore considers for a moment, “Of course, you are welcomed here.” he replies in his usual grandfatherly tone, blue eyes twinkling.

“Albus!” Mrs. Weasley shouts but immediately goes quiet seeing the man shaking his head.

“You have my thanks. Let us go, Eileen.”

Miss Eileen stands still for a moment, looking at the unconscious professor, before turning away to catch up with the man.

“Ah! Please Wait!” Fudge suddenly calls out, pushing his way through the crowd from the hiding.

“Is my proof not valid enough, Minister?” Lord Prince asks with a hint of humor, his eyebrow raised.

“No no no, it’s ah,” Minister Fudge wrings his hand together, flashing a flattering smile with teeth, “Would you like to reclaim your seat? I think the Wizenmagot and the Ministry can benefit from your experience and expertise. We will disperse any unwanted voices regarding your prestigious house.”

“Cornelius—” Dumbledore tries to interrupt.

Lord Prince looks at Miss Eileen as she gestures something resembling a house, crowds and people talking, with both hands with bent index and middle fingers moving up and down alternatively at the end of the silent sentence.

“Ah.” The Lord grimaces, turning back to the simpering Minister, “I am not particularly fond of politics, especially amidst another rise of conflict. But perhaps I will request an Assemblage member to stand in my place, or when we find the lost remaining heir, if our presence is truly necessary.”

“Of course! The Ministry shall provide a hand in finding your heir.” the shorter man deliberately ignores the “conflict part”.

“Oh?” He bows slightly to meet Fudge’s level, and his friendly expression drops to a cold, impassive one, much like a certain professor, Harry thought, “And kill them again?”

The Princes straightens back at the minister’s terrified face and chuckles amiably, “Merely joking. Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen.”

Lord Prince turns and breathes out clouds of thick black smoke, slowly engulfing himself. The black smoke is then breathed in by the white Raven now landed on Miss Eileen’s shoulder, its snow-white feathers once again turning into their original shade of midnight. The woman looks back at the professor one more time, and with an explosive croak, they apparated away.

Harry is still trying to process whatever just happened, Ron and Hermione now next to him, watching their Head of House as she pulls the revived man into an embrace, the Malfoys too, making their way towards the bed.

“Bloody hell.” his two best friends mutter at the same time.

Yeah, bloody hell.